DethMourning
by Mecha-Foot
Summary: Being sad is so not brutal, but the nine months Offdensen was gone were. A look at how each member of Dethklok deals with loss, and the absence of the man responsible for keeping Dethklok running and the five of them alive.
1. Nathan

They had to get up to something in the 9 months besides pissing away their money, right? And I can't say I don't think they missed him, in their own, brutal fashion. Nathan first, then the rest as they come. Read and review, please.

Disclaimer: Brenden Small owns all, but I'd klokateer for him if he wanted. No profit, (hopefully) no harm.

It is four-thirty in the morning, and Nathan Explosion has just reached the conclusion that they won't be able to go on like this.

The events since the attack on Mordhaus have trailed on like an endless slideshow of suck, and it is this final discovery that first alerts Nathan to that inescapable fact.

Dethklok had carried their manager to the hospital wing, hoping it wasn't as on fire as the rest of the haus. They'd delivered their manager to the doctor and tried to crowd into the ER after him, but were chased out by a truly terrifying middle-aged nurse. If he'd been less preoccupied, Nathan probably could've gotten two songs out of the experience, easy.

After the surgery, Nathan was keeping watch. It wasn't caring, not really—he was on thin ice already with that whole Toki thing and kind of edgy about it—because someone had to be there to tell Offdensen about all the shit he'd missed while he'd been passed out, right? And besides, Offdensen wasn't really in the band, so the rules didn't apply to him.

Because it'd been a really long day even before they'd been attacked, Nathan had fallen asleep in the uncomfortable chair, just slightly too small for his frame. And then he'd woken up to an empty bed, all clean white sheets like Offdensen had never been there in the first place.

He'd found a klokateer, busy administering medical aid to the klokateers charred by the fire and savaged by those freakish fans—Revengencers, a klokateer had called them—bent over fixing an IV. When he'd questioned where Offdensen had been moved, he watched her back tense and her fingers fumble briefly before she turned to face him.

"M-my lord," she began nervously, and that was all Nathan had really needed to hear. And then he'd had to tell the rest of the band, because he couldn't find a klokateer who wasn't too busy making sure the haus wouldn't crash down around their ears. He'd been worried the most about telling Toki. He didn't think he could deal with anymore Norwegian tears and snot. But the rhythm guitarist had been the calmest out of his four band mates. He'd merely nodded like he'd expected it, and gone back to puking in his aqua-tiled bathroom.

Nathan found Pickles, Murderface, and Skwisgaar in the shell of the living room, negotiating sitting as best they could on couches that spewed black stuffing from multiple slashes. After Nathan stammered out the news, Skwisgaar stopped fiddling away on his guitar for almost the first time since Nathan had met him. All three were tense, turned inward. Perhaps they were worried that they too would be accused of caring if they said anything, but none of them stayed in the shell of the living room for long, instead drifting off their separate ways.

The evening of the funeral, it had been Nathan who had gathered everyone from the makeshift corners of Mordhaus. He'd turfed Skwisgaar's lady-friend out and poured coffee down Pickles's throat until he could stand up and keep still. Endured both the smell and the threats emanating from Murderface's room. Found Toki, finally, half-comatose and wedged behind a couch, shaking from withdrawal. He'd smacked 'em around until they were in their suits and chivvied them, whining and bitching the whole way, to the place of honor right beside the waiting funeral pyre.

He wasn't a stranger to emotion. He was Nathan Fucking Explosion. Anger, certainly. On very rare occasions, fear. Even rarer, enjoyment—happiness was not metal. And above all, hatred.

Regret, though. That was a new one, and it may be the most brutal emotion of all.

After an impressive eulogy, a klokateer handed Nathan the torch. The rote, "We release you from your earthly duties," tasted hollow, like lines, and other words itched just under the surface of his skin, making him suppress an irritable roll of his shoulders to dislodge them.

All those times they'd told Offdensen he was a robot. Or their butler. Or telling him "he just paid the bills". He was willing to die for them—he had died for them—and they'd treated him like shit. No more than they had anyone else, but unlike all those other regular jackoffs, they owed Offdensen so much. They had owed him more than anyone.

And despite those near-constant insults, it hadn't always been business. Once a month or so since Melmord quit—left—whatever he did, Offdensen would clear his evening schedule for a night of drinking with "the boys." A chance for him to loosen—or altogether lose—his tie and get sloppy.

Those memories dragged across him like broken glass as he set the torch to the pyre and the other four cast the punt off the dock. It's been months, and he can't get those memories out of his head.

Now Nathan had a constant hot churning in his gut, like when you down an entire bottle of vodka, except it didn't block out all those stupid buzzing thoughts like booze did. He never should've bothered with the rest of the band. Now the klokateers came to them with their problems. Frontman and leader were not syner—snog—synogo—they weren't the same, dammit. This is what happened when you tried to care about other people.

And he has no clue how Offdensen did it. Not even the expenses; they'd all been wary of entering Offdensen's office and frankly afraid to go near the filing cabinets. Just _dealing _with the day to day running of the haus. The klokateers have mostly started taking care of themselves, but pulling Pickles back just before he OD's, and preventing Murderface from undermining the reconstruction of the haus both with his knives and his ridiculous suggestions, and keeping everyone, but most particularly Skiwsgaar and Toki, from killing each other had for some reason become Nathan's new domain. And they aren't even thinking about touring, or making new music. This is just keeping them alive and mostly intact, and it's slowly grinding what remains of his sanity into powder in a way that would be brutal if it was just happening to someone else.

Why the fuck did it have to be him? Pickles and Murderface were both older. At least, Nathan thought they were older than him.

And the caring rule is shot to shit, because he feels responsible for the rest of the band now, can't help _but _care. He's never felt this way about people before, gave a shit what happened to them. He hates it.

At the same time he wishes it came on sooner, because maybe if he'd cared he could've gotten to Offdensen a little quicker, actually saved him from that masked freak instead of just ensuring their manager became a slightly less beaten corpse when he was burnt to ashes.

There had been the furrows of a frown permanently etched between Nathan Explosion's eyebrows since he was eleven. It was the other discovery, stepping out of the shower, that first made him aware that they could not go on like this. His scream had shook Mordhaus to its already shaky foundations.

He'd found his first gray hair. Gray hair was so not metal.


	2. Skiwsgaar

Because I'm halfway through the new episode and it's already the bossest thing ever. In special thanks, or honor, or something, here's the next installment. All standard disclaimers apply.

It is four-thirty, six months after the attack on Mordhaus, and Skwisgaar doesn't believe Offdensen is dead.

It's not hope so much as disbelief. He'd seen what Offdensen had done to the masked assassin the first time around. For someone who'd never progressed beyond hair-pulling as far as fighting went, it had been both impressive. The small man had possessed a poised deadliness at odds with his bearing, like putting a jaguar in an expensive business suit. The only other time Skwisgaar had ever seen something with such graceful brutality was, well, Dethklok itself. Their manager had stabbed the masked assassin with his own dagger and sent the white-haired man flying into the cold waters before Skwisgaar and Toki could even do much more than sit up.

Offdensen had never brought it up after that. When Skwisgaar had tried, just once, to ask him something about it—he wasn't even sure what, the whole thing was a disjointed jumble single word questions, whats and hows and whens, nearly incomprehensible even for his version of English. Offdensen had waited until Skwisgaar trailed off before leaning forward.

"Protecting you boys is my number one priority." And even though it didn't answer much, not anything at all, Skwisgaar knew the conversation was 100% closed.

Which is why this whole death thing was just hard to believe, like when Pickles had told him that he'd actually managed to… well, it wasn't important. Nathan said they were putting that chapter of their lives behind them.

He found it hard enough to believe it when he and Pickles came up and saw the bloodied lawyer. He hadn't seen Offdensen fall, he'd had to hear about it from Nathan on the way to Mordhaus's hospital. The frontman had been the only one there in any condition to tell the story.

He'd never even seen the lawyer-man with so much as a paper-cut before, let alone so savagely beaten. It was like his eyes were playing tricks on him, bad acid trip or something.

He'd found it even harder to believe when Nathan came back from the hospital and told him, Pickles and Murderface that Offdensen had died. Skwisgaar had winced and looked away, reaching for his guitar, fingers already twitching. He'd excused himself not long after.

After the funeral, he had been so certain Offdensen would reappear in his office, having overseen the whole thing and ready with another lecture that none of them would listen to. Skwisgaar was already practicing the smug grin he'd use—only babies like Toki said 'tolds-you-sos'.

After they'd cast the boat away, sending it flaming gently out to sea, Skwisgaar had rushed up to the office, not even bothering to change out of his suit. At that moment he was almost sorry Offdensen wasn't really dead. Valhalla was supposed to be a beautiful place, and if anyone deserved it, it was him.

Well, it would have to wait. Dethklok was a large machine, and it needed managing. Skwisgaar moved so quickly he didn't open the door quickly enough, and as a result half-fell into the office. He stumbled for a few steps and recovered. He'd winced, though it hadn't hurt. He didn't want anyone seeing him trip like that, especially someone like Offdensen, who never tripped, fell, or skidded that Skwisgaar had seen, not even on slick floors or rumpled carpets.

But the lawyer man hadn't been there. Skwisgaar even checked the corners, to be sure. Well, no matter, he thought. It hadn't occurred to him for a second that he'd been wrong. The lawyer was just waiting for the opportune moment to appear. Skwisgaar knew all about dramatic effect. He was a showman, both on and off stage. He'd hoped the next chance he had to run into the lawyer would swing wide of tripping of any sort.

After a few months, though, dramatic or not, he wished the lawyer would hurry it up already. He'd never kept Dethklok waiting before, and Skwisgaar wasn't sure why he'd chosen right now to start. Stuff was just getting plain _weird _around here. The other day he'd finished up a foursome with some big fans (_really_ big fans). He went to the kitchen. When he came back to his room, they were still there. He'd never realized before that Offdensen, or at least by his ministrations, was the one who'd gotten rid of the groupies once Dethklok was done with them. Skwisgaar had just figured everyone had gotten what they'd wanted and had wandered off. They still didn't leave, even after he pointedly ignored them in favor of his guitar. They just lay there, watching him worshipfully. Finally he opened the door and shooed them out, ignoring their coos of disappointment. He picked his guitar up and went back to work. Something jangled gently in his mind, like a note just slightly off. There was something he'd forgotten to—oh, damn. The front door still led into open air. Well, some klokateer would probably tell them.

He still doesn't really believe Offdensen is dead, but that disbelief is getting harder to take refuge in, and all of his new guitar riffs sound like dirges.


	3. Pickles

Hope everyone had a Happy Thanksgiving! While you're all still digesting (god knows I I'm still full), here's Pickles' chapter.

I'd really like to thank everyone who left a review (by name, you ask? That's cool: mastersam, charontedemoness, Iruka Sensei871, you guys rock!). This is the first time I've posted an actual multi-chaptered fic, and I'm glad to know that people like it.

Disclaimers in Chapter 1 still apply. Don't own it.

Pickles has no clue what time it is, but he's willing to call it four-thirty. He doesn't know if it's day or night. The kitchen has no windows—they hurt Jean-Pierre's reinserted eyes, and sunshine isn't really metal. He's tucked up against one of the burnished metal cabinets, bottle of vodka nestled against his side. He isn't drunk enough yet, so he can still taste the cheapness of the vodka when he slugs it back, the harsh rubbing alcohol taste and too-bitter burn.

He wants to fling the bottle hard against the wall, let it shatter and spray glass and booze everywhere, and then call one of the klokateers in to clean it up. One of the new klokateers, still cocky they'd cheated the nearly certain death of the application process, but scared shitless, knowing it wouldn't last. 'Yes my-lording' every two seconds.

He doesn't, though, because his next course of action after that would be to dig in the back for a nicer bottle, and he wasn't sure it would even be there anymore. A bottle of cheap booze in the hand is worth two nice in the pantry. Offdensen always kept Pickles' pantry stocked with enough booze to give Cady Elizabeth Staunton a heart attack, but Offdensen wasn't around anymore, and Pickles is nowhere near ready to face evidence of that, particularly not if it pertains to his drinking habits.

At the thought of Dethklok's manager, Pickles tips his head back and lets the cheap booze slide a burning trail down his throat. A tribute to Offdensen, and fortification against what are looking like dark days ahead. They hadn't talked about it yet, other than Murderface dropping some unintentionally ominous hints about "taking the helm", but Pickles at least knew that Offdensen had been a damn good manager, maybe even the best there was. Snakes 'n' Barrels's manager never did half such a good job, which was why most of their money tended to wind up in Tony's veins or up Sammy's nose. Even with their extravagant spending and ridiculous side projects, Dethklok has always had money to burn. Literally. Right before the release party, he and Nathan had been kicking around this idea for their next concert, something about giant hamster balls full of money being shot into the air and fired on by klokateer sharp-shooters. They hadn't talked about music in months, though. Nothing about recording, or touring, or even making new music. Skwisgaar was the only one who went anywhere near his instrument anymore, but only because when he was separated from his Explorer his fingers still twitched out melodies, and things were bad enough without a Swedish mime around the haus.

Pickles may be a little addled from the decades of drug use, spanning all the way back to his kiddie glaucoma, but he wasn't an idiot. As much as the band teased Offdensen, called him robot, the drummer knew the manager had been the main thing keeping Dethklok together. His managerial skills and the collective hatred of five shitty lives had been the glue that kept the whole thing from explosively self-destructing (How did that work? Explosive retardant glue, maybe? If he was starting to mix his metaphors, the booze was kicking in. _Finally_.). It was Offdensen, he was sure, who had kept Seth from getting Pickles' phone number. Now that the manager was gone, Pickles started to get nervous every time his Dethfone rang. There was a reason carrying his inhaler around in his back pocket again for the first time in years instead of leaving it in a drawer in his bedside table seemed like the right thing to do. He could feel his lungs constricting, that heavy pressure on his chest like when he was a kid and Seth would sit on him when they were fighting.

And God, what sort of mother-douchebag world had men like Offdensen die when dildos like his brother survived all assassination attempts as head of Dethklok Australia to date?

Those hints Murderface have been throwing out seemed to mean they'd embark on another hobby soon—like the home for wayward kitties, or learning the blues. Death would swirl around them like a tornado of blood, viscera and limbs while they remained in the eye of the storm, untouched, until they lost interest and abandoned the project for the next one. And most importantly, no one would learn a lesson.

Would it work that way, though? They all seemed to have some measure of luck, but at the end of the day Offdensen saved their asses more times than they probably even knew about.

Without him, they were all in a bad way. Nathan, hardly ever seen without his reading glasses, disappeared for long stretches of time, muttering figures and to himself, more likely to pass out from exhaustion on top of all his papers than sleep in his bed. Skwisgaar, always a creature of excess, was fucking, smoking, drinking, and injecting like he was going to die soon, too. The lead guitarist never sat still anymore, never just hung out in the hot tub with everyone, which, due to the destruction and subsequent and ongoing reconstruction of the haus, was just Jean-Pierre's most gigantic soup-pot, snuck out of the kitchen. Murderface was being an even bigger dick than usual. Or he was _trying_, but his shriveled heart just wasn't in it. Every attempt to pit the other members of the band against each other was given up halfway though, amid mutters of, "Why bother?"

They were all in a bad way, but none of them were about to admit it. Except for Toki, maybe, who'd quit drinking—thank God—but was apt to burst into tears over the slightest thing that reminded him of their manager, not the least of which being the photograph he'd insisted on carrying around.

Pickles kills the bottle and tosses it aside. He's disappointed to hear it bounce and skitter across the stone floor, improbably, instead of shattering. He crawls across the floor to the cabinet opposite, reaches in and closes his eyes, praying his fingers come in contact with glass and not smooth copper of the cabinet's back wall.


	4. Murderface

Without whining or being self-deprecating, I will say that it is hard as hell to write Murderface accurately. A lot of people in fandom ignore him, maybe because he's ugly, maybe because he's basically an asshole who's totally not self-aware. I didn't want to ignore him, but there's a reason his turned out to be the shortest (and his author's note is the longest...) Brendon Small put it as Murderface is, "thin-skinned and incredibly sensitive and just wants to be accepted constantly but can't get that because he's such a dick and pushes people away", so I strove for that. Let me know if I pulled it off. In an additional, somewhat related note: seriously, reviews are love. I can't thank everyone who's reviewed so far enough.

Disclaimer: see chapter one.

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It is four-thirty, and Murderface is _not _sad.

Murderface had been upset for precisely four minutes after Nathan had told him their butler had died, and immediately left the room before anyone could see it. _Upset_. He wasn't sad, and don't you forget it.

He hadn't been sad when his father had killed his mother, and then himself. He hadn't remembered it, not really, and when he'd asked his grandmother why, she'd caned him with that damn extend-and-reach grabber she had. At sixteen, he ran away from his grandparents' and joined a band. And then another band. And then he'd found Dethklok at twenty-four and had been there ever since. No 'Where Are They Now' required. Life goes on. Except for robots.

And anyway, he was tired of everyone around the damn haus _moping_ in a ridiculously unmetal way. He doesn't know what's to miss, anyway. If the butler had moved a little faster on registering the Planet Piss domain, Toki never would've been able to set up that damn bestiality website. But no, he'd been so concerned with Pickles and his super-gay so-not-metal Snakes 'n' Barrels. Murderface had never dragged the band anywhere half as gay as Los Angeles, and they gave him twice as much shit as they did the drummer.

The butler had at least been supportive when he and Toki had showed off "Takin' It Easy". He'd hand him that much. He'd been the first person to hear that bit of lyrical genius, actually, and had pronounced it a "very strong effort". That praise what was made Murderface first think that maybe it just wasn't for Dethklok, that it was good enough for Planet Piss. And that warrants maybe being upset for a little while. _Not sad_.

He's not sad. He's not. Murderface has to admit he was feeling a bit off his game lately himself. He doesn't feel like watching his favorite Tivo'd slasher porn flicks and Civil War documentaries; hasn't for weeks. Or sharpening his knives. Or practicing some new licks with his special bass technique. But it's not like that meant anything; especially not that he missed the robot. Everybody gets down sometimes. But not everybody gets sad, and Murderface wants that point to be noted.

No matter how mopey his bandmates had been lately, they were moving on, though, with Murderface in the lead. It had been his genius that had lifted Mordhaus into the air, in fact. So maybe it was Nathan who'd suggested going up into the air, and Pickles who had rounded up those idiotic scientists who worked out how to record music on water from wherever they'd been cowering after the release party, and they'd found out how to get and keep what remained of Mordhaus into the air with all the spare parts lying around, but it had been Murderface who'd _started _the conversation of getting them somewhere to keep them safe from the Revengencers. And without the conversation it never would've happened.

He had no clue why Nathan was getting so damn pissy lately, especially about making them go to the funeral. He had been the most adamant about not giving a shit about each other, and that should've definitely extended to the pile of rotting meat that used to their robot-butler.

Could robots even rot? He made a point to ask—well, nevermind.

Whatever. Maybe he'd write the butler some sort of metal tribute song for Planet Piss. One of these days.

It wasn't so bad that the butler was gone, anyway. There needed to be some changes around Dethklok; Murderface has been saying that for ages. With the butler out of the picture, well, let's just say Murderface has a chance now to step up and display some of his natural leading skills. Nobody had expected him to help when Mordhaus was burning, even if he had been fire marshal. Ex-fire marshal. He bet nobody expected him to be able to competently manage Dethklok, either. And what kind of butler _ran_ a band, anyway?  
Nobody looked to be much in the mood right now to do anything band related. That was fine; he had something else to work on, too. Besides Planet Piss, anyway. No, right now he was worried about the house. Like a lot of klokateers, much Mordhaus's furniture had been either burned or smoke-damaged and had to be thrown out. While they were refurbishing the place, maybe it was time to make a few changes in the décor. Murderface had never decorated a room before, but he was certain he'd be awesome at it.

The butler's room, though, he'd leave alone. It hadn't been hit by the fire, and the idea of changing it felt weird. It hadn't been Dethklok's room, not really, even if it was their haus. Even if they got a new butler, Murderface would make sure he knew to stay away from that room. With knives, if necessary.

Brutal.


	5. Toki

I just finished my finals, so in celebration, here's the last chapter (and the longest of the five!). I hope you enjoy; your reviews have really meant a lot to me. So yeah. It's been a lot of fun to write.

See chapter one for disclaimer.

This is a really long author's note for a single, throwaway line, but I wanted to explain my thought process. I sort of imagine Skwisgaar being a closet cuddle-whore, but being so detached from his groupies that he has to go elsewhere. I am taking a few liberties, but my thought process is – he equates any and all affection he shows with sex, basically. He wouldn't fuck Toki (_maybe _he wouldn't fuck Toki, the fangirl in me says) and he'd never admit that he doesn't completely hate him, but I think Skwisgaar likes contact, not just sex, because as a child that's what he learned to associate with (a very fucked up form of) love. He'd never be so familiar with groupies, so he has to go to someone he is familiar with, someone who isn't likely to turn him down. Ergo, Toki. Be forewarned for the (one line of) possible out-of-character-ness.

-----------------

It's four-thirty in the morning, and Toki is wishing to every god he's ever even heard of in passing that he hadn't promised Nathan he was going to stop drinking. The shakes have completely passed. The last time he went to the Mordhaus doctor for a check-up, the man just muttered something about the resiliency of youth and pronounced him well on his way to recovery. Toki had no idea what he was talking about. He's never felt older in his life, not even when he still lived with his parents. At least back then he hadn't _known _there was something better out there.

And he's alright when he's awake and there are things to do. It's when he tries to sleep that it all falls apart. He's suffered from nightmares for years, but coupled with the anxiety the doctor said might be a side-effect of withdrawal, he's doing all he can to avoid sleep entirely or sleep so deeply he doesn't dream. He's tried playing his DDR game. He'd had to repair it first, and it had worked out fine except the screen flipped, which was okay, just a little more challenging. He's taken a few shifts with the klokateers, cleanup detail, trying to get exhausted. He's even taken to practicing his guitar, formerly purely Skwisgaar's domain. At best he's getting a full night's sleep spread over two weeks. He would prefer to avoid any resemblance to Skwisgaar if at all possible, but he's starting to get dark circles under his eyes.

The nightmares aren't new, but his withdrawal symptoms and lack of a safety net are, and Toki finds himself doing something he never has before: wishing for the past.

He'd just woken up from a nightmare, and thought Murderface's room was more likely to inspire more nightmares than banish them, Pickles was already passed out, and Nathan and Skwisgaar had both warned him under no uncertain terms that if he interrupted while they had, ahem, company, they'd feed him to the yard-wolves. Which had been totally unfair, because Skwisgaar never minded sharing when he didn't have the ladies over, as long as he and Toki were… what was that word? Dice-streets? Dee-skreets? As long as he didn't bring it up in front of anyone else.

But Skwisgaar did have company, so Toki pouted against yet another injustice and padded down the hallways, Deddy-Bear gripped like a lifeline in one hand.

In his wanderings, he passed the manager's door, and was surprised to note a light on underneath it. Sure, it was metal to stay up late, but the lawyer was usually up before any of the band had even given thought to waking up, before Toki got up to watch his cartoons, even. When did he find time to sleep?

Maybe, Toki thought, the lawyer-man had trouble sleeping, too.

It was this thought that had set him knocking on the door, gently, before he'd thought about it. Dethklok's manager answered the door after a moment, one hand tucked inconspicuously inside his jacket, gripping what Toki was fairly certain was a knife of some sort. Upon seeing it was Toki, he immediately relaxed his grip.

Toki had meant to immediately launch into an explanation, all the while sort of edging his foot in the door so Offdensen couldn't slam it. That's how it always worked with Skwisgaar. But he found he couldn't even speak. Coming here was a stupid idea.

Offdensen regarded him levelly for a moment, his gaze searching out something in the younger man's face. He'd apparently found it, because he moved aside and pushed the door open.

"Well, come in then." His voice, as always, had been calm, almost dispassionate. And Toki followed him back into his office, somewhat calmer already.

Eschewing the couches, the Norwegian slumped in the corner nearest to Offdensen's monstrosity of a desk, below his fencing trophies.

And that was it, really. He just leaned against the wall and Offdensen went back to work. He wasn't ignoring the guitarist—Offdensen struck Toki as a distinctly aware person, and if Toki had said anything or moved, the lawyer would've noticed. But in being such, he was probably aware that Toki didn't exactly feel up to talking. He woke up later, that afternoon, in his bed, no memory of being moved.

It wasn't frequent, but the nights all other doors in the haus were closed to him, Offdensen's never was. Some nights he would arrive at the door, softly tapping, and Offdensen would be there, a cup of Jean-Pierre's cocoa already waiting for him.

Leaning against the wall, Toki could drift off to the sounds of shuffling papers and scratchings of a furiously worked pen, or the rhythmic rattle of a laptop keyboard, sounding almost like Pickles' work. He'd be the first to admit he wanted nothing to do with financial side of Dethklok, but there was something oddly soothing about the _sound_ of it, something only associated with Offdensen. It wasn't contact, like with Skwisgaar, but it was, in some ephemeral way, still being touched.

Curled in one corner of his small bed, shaking after another nightmare, he has no reason to get up now, knows there isn't any comfort out in the halls of Mordhaus to seek, except in a glossy 8 x 10, becoming increasingly care-worn. Which if anyone catches him with, he fully intends to say it's all Pickles' fault.

He'd been wandering around the haus again without realizing he was at the place he least wanted to be, by Offdensen's office. He was about to turn around when he noticed the door was ajar, and slight sounds of movement were coming from inside. None of the klokateers went near it, and it was before Nathan had tried his hand at managing. Half-curious, half-angry, Toki pushed open the door quietly.

He only saw the lower half of the person, but the shoes and slight stature immediately identified it as Pickles. What was he doing rooting through Offdensen's desk drawers?

Toki got his answer when Pickles emerged, clutching Offdensen's security clearance card, the one that stayed in his desk because if you didn't know who Offdensen was, you weren't going to last very long in the haus. Pickles tried to peel apart the laminate layers, muttering, "Where's Murderface and one of his mother-douchebag knives when ya actually need 'em?"

"Lawyer-man's ams was keep-sing skissors ins the tops drawer," Toki offered. Pickles' response was to immediately jerk his head up and smash it against the top of the desk. He crawled out to view the new intruder.

"Gahd, Toki, you scared me." Toki shrugged in apology and repeated his advice, pointing to the correct drawer.

Pickles retrieved the scissors and carefully cut the photo of their lawyer out of the ID card, and then pulled a fake-antique locket out of his pocket. "Gahd, Ma," he muttered to no one in particular, peeling out the offending photo already pasted in the locket. Toki caught a glimpse of it before Pickles tore it apart. It had been a picture of his brother. Carefully, the red-haired drummer trimmed the photo to fit and stuck it in the locket, closing it with a satisfied clip and slipping it back into his pocket.

"Look, our secret, okay kid?" Toki nodded agreement. He understood. An idea struck him.

"I wants one, too."

"What?"

"Am misses him, Pickle." Pickles didn't have another locket or ID card, so he went to the farthest filing cabinet and popped open the bottom drawer. These contained the files on all the current klokateers, each of which had a picture. The turnover rate was so high that it wasn't in any order. Number 473 was next to 871 was next to 202. Pickles flicked his fingers to the very back of the drawer and finally drew out Offdensen's file. They both reached a conclusion that reading the file was too much like prying, but Pickles extracted the photo and handed it to Toki before replacing the file and closing the door.

Toki grinned then for the first time in what felt like years, wobbly.

"What?" Pickles asked as they exited the office, prizes carefully hidden.

"Mines ams bigger."

Now, though, a photo isn't enough, and Toki wonders if it's his fault the lawyer-man is dead. If he hadn't gotten trapped under that support beam, Nathan wouldn't have had to come rescue him, could've headed outside with Murderface, or Skwisgaar and Pickles instead of having to go up on the roof with that crazy German whore. The frontman may have let himself go a little from when Toki had first met them, but he was still easily the strongest member of the band. He had been the one who'd cracked the masked assassin across the back of the head, stopped him from cutting up Offdensen. If he hadn't had to save Toki, he could've saved Offdensen.

It's not like he doesn't have a record of this, Toki thinks miserably, curling farther into himself. Juliet Sarmansadandle. Dimneld. His father. It was pretty much a proven fact that anything Toki loves dies. And maybe that's the real reason the band rule never to care about each other was put into place.

It is going to be a long night.


End file.
